Never Mind The Gap
by some kind of harmony
Summary: He should have kissed Sherlock Holmes ages ago. John/Sherlock.


[**Disclaimer:** The Sherlock characters belong to Moffat and Gatiss, the BBC, Arthur Conan Doyle.

**A/N: **Thanks to caitalonas and cxionbonan on tumblr for beta help!

**ETA:** This fic is now far more British than before, thanks to a certain "Brit-pick Hints" document on AOO3. (Seriously, go look it up! it's _wonderful_.) If you notice anything else glaringly (or even subtly) American, feel free to PM me or comment. I am all for cultural authenticity!]

**(Never) Mind the Gap**

It began like everything that began on Baker Street—as a way to keep Sherlock amused. That was why Sherlock kept insulting John's girlfriends, wasn't it? Because it amused him? And because if John was off dating someone, he wasn't constantly around to keep Sherlock amused. John was well aware Sherlock would do anything, inconvenient or illegal or suicidal, to stave off the inevitable boredom.

"John, where is your gun?"

Sherlock was actually pacing the floor of their flat. _No one paces in real life,_ John thought. Then again, no one else had an archenemy in real life—and yet Moriarty was terrifyingly real.

Pacing couldn't be a good sign. John flipped through yesterday's newspaper, waiting for Sherlock's next move. Never mind that he needed to pick up dinner sometime soon; John had a sneaking suspicion that without John to distract him, Sherlock would make some pretty rapid deductions as to where John hid his gun the moment Sherlock pulled out the blue bathrobe.

And the search for the gun would only amuse Sherlock for about half a minute before the walls—and who knows what else—started to suffer the consequences.

"My gun. Sherlock, is there a criminal mastermind hunting you down at the moment? Are we in mortal peril?"

Sherlock clenched and unclenched his hands as he walked. _Paced._ "Don't tease. You're aware that we're absolutely. Perfectly. Safe." He said each word like it left a disgusting aftertaste in his mouth. "All of the psychopaths in London are on holiday!"

There was a time in John's life when that news would have overjoyed him. There was a time in John's life when that news would have overjoyed him. There was a time in John's life when the location of all the psychopaths in London held very little relevance in his daily life. But now—

"Bored!"

—well, now things had changed.

He felt, more than heard, his stomach grumble. Maybe Mrs. Hudson could bring him tea and a biscuit. "We could go out for dinner somewhere new. You could tell me which petty crimes the waiters have committed."

"Boring."

John sighed. It was a long shot anyway. He resigned himself to hunger for the moment, and he turned back to his paper once more.

"Wait. Stop."

Sherlock had moved right next to John's chair, crouched down so he was at the doctor's eye level. John watched him warily, noting the ways his eyes twitched back and forth. Sherlock grabbed John's hand, running his fingers over the scratch John received while hiding the gun (in flat 221c). Sherlock repeated the motion again, sweeping his long fingers over the marred skin.

John shivered a little, then cringed. It was only a matter of seconds before Sherlock found the gun and went on a mad shooting spree across London.

He wouldn't do that.

Would he?

"Sherlock—"

"Shut up."

"Sherlock—"

"No."

John let out a frustrated noise and then he grabbed Sherlock's jowl and kissed him hard. It wasn't a long kiss, but it seemed to do the trick. Sherlock rocked back on his heels, his eyes wide.

It was an incredible expression. It was a phenomenon. Sherlock Holmes speechless. John had given the consulting detective a piece of information that he didn't know how to sort. It meant nothing, of course. Sherlock was married to his work, and if John wasn't dating any women at the moment, it certainly wasn't for a lack of trying. It wasn't the kind of kiss that mattered so much as the kind of kiss that amused. Which was what Sherlock always wanted, wasn't it?

"Well then," John said, standing up. He had to stifle a giggle. Maybe amusement wasn't such a bad thing after all. "I'm going out to get Chinese. Want anything?"

Sherlock didn't respond, but that wasn't out of the ordinary when John mentioned_ boring_ things like eating or sleeping. All the same, John felt stupidly proud of himself as he exited the flat. Bit of a shock to Sherlock's system would be…well. It would be just what the doctor ordered.

He should have kissed Sherlock Holmes ages ago.

_—_

"I found his lectures so inspiring," Sherlock told a Mrs. Taylor. He was nearing the point of (utterly false) tears.

Mrs. Taylor's husband, a retired professor in his eighties, had been found dead on the floor of one of the hottest nightclubs in London. There was no evidence he had been at the club the night before, no drugs or alcohol in his system. It seemed that the killer was trying to make a statement.

"And the stories he always told about his _liberal_ youth," Sherlock added. "They encouraged me to live my life the way he had."

He put his arm around John's shoulders, which in no way prepared John for the next moment, when Sherlock tugged John in closer and kissed him on the cheek. Which was the type of thing Sherlock would only do if he were shamming. Or possessed. It was…_sweet._ And so, so disturbing.

John was fairly certain his eyes were bugging out and he had no idea how shocked he appeared (probably very), but the woman had burst into a fresh wave of tears, far stronger than her tears before. Maybe she hadn't noticed. John let his features slip into another, more familiar expression, the one that existed simply for moments when Sherlock had gone too far but John had to wait until later to bring it up. The consulting detective ignored both the crying woman and John's expression and continued talking about how the professor and their "uni relationship." He kept his arm around John the entire time.

"Sherlock, what the hell was that?" John whispered as they walked away. Sherlock was moving fast and looking straight ahead, the way he did when he was well on his way to an important deduction.

"I needed to know if she knew her husband was gay."

"What?"

"The creases in his collar, John. Do try to keep up."

"Right. Okay. But why did you need to kiss me?"

Sherlock snorted. "Obvious. Even you aren't that dull."

"Sherlock, if it was for your disguise...Look, Sherlock, you know we don't need any help convincing people we're boyfriends. They jump to that assumption on their own, without any concrete evidence at all!"

"Do they."

If anyone else had said the words, John might think they were flirting. But the things normal people considered flirting, things like invading John's personal space and even paying for his dinner, Sherlock viewed as his god-given right and to hell with anyone's opinion of the pair of them. John considered the idea of Sherlock flirting, of Sherlock actually_ intending_ to flirt, and he was terrified. Well, terrified and curious, but mostly terrified. He was fairly certain it would involve corpses.

John stayed silent; eventually Sherlock huffed out a breath. "John. I use every resource available to me when solving a case."

As far as explanations for his ridiculous behaviour went, it was more than he usually offered. _Could be worse,_John reasoned. But he had to nip this habit in the bud. It wouldn't do for Sherlock to use John as a "resource" in front of girls he wanted to take home.

"For future reference, uh, it's not available. The resource."

"Oh." Sherlock stopped and turned. "Really? I thought since you kissed me this was okay now. Kissing to prove a point."

"Believe me, kissing you was a one-time thing—"

"Well," Sherlock corrected with the tiniest grin. "Two-time."

"—And it's never going to happen again."

_—_

Sherlock staggered inside into the flat. He practically tripped onto the couch when he finally reached it, but his smile was one for Christmas.

"John!" He stopped to give way to a coughing fit. "John! My mind is slowing, the sickness obviously, yes I can _feel it_ _slowing_, it's duller than normal—though certainly sharper than yours—and I just solved a case despite it all, which proves that my hard drive is utterly sufficient and I don't need to know anything more about the solar system so _there_." John stared at the man, really the gigantic child, completely incredulous.

Then Sherlock started coughing again, and John moved over to check his temperature. He grimaced as his hand met Sherlock's clearly feverish forehead. Sherlock simultaneously curled up on the sofa and leaned into John's cold hand.

Mrs. Hudson popped in the doorway. The moment she arrived John stood up straight. Right. He grabbed his phone and started texting.

"Oh, thank heavens he's back. Is he all right? We were worried sick you'd dropped dead in the middle of London, dear." She walked further into the room, placing a hand over her heart when she saw Sherlock. "Oh, Sherlock! You look terrible! Let me make you some tea."

John looked up from the "call off the hounds" text he'd composed for Lestrade and Mycroft. He smiled at Mrs. Hudson, but then he shook his head. "Thank you Mrs. Hudson, but I think we're fine here. Sherlock's not nearly as ill as he looks."

She sent a doubtful look at Sherlock, who somehow seemed paler than he had a minute ago. John wasn't certain how he achieved this feat considering he was so fair-skinned to begin with. Even in sickness, Sherlock was a show-off.

"If you say so, dear. You'd know best. But shout if you need anything."

Mrs. Hudson left, and John shut the door.

Sherlock didn't even look at John as he spoke in a dull, flat tone. "You lied to Mrs. Hudson. You don't think I'm well at all."

"_Sherlock,_ just…Consider yourself very lucky you chose a doctor for a flatmate."

Sherlock tried to speak, but his voice dissolved into coughs yet again. John rolled his eyes, but also fetched paracetamol and a glass of water.

Four endless hours later—the time had been filled with whinging, bragging and yet more coughing fits, which was impressive since Sherlock must have been exhausted the entire time— Sherlock had finally, _finally_ drifted off, and John suddenly didn't actually know what to do with himself. John stared at the curly mop on the bed across from him. He had an urge to reach out and pet Sherlock, like a puppy.

"You are an idiot," John murmured. "I realize the irony of me saying that, and I'm saying it anyway."

Sherlock didn't respond. Obviously.

"You know, if you ever ate anything, your immune system would be better equipped to deal with illness…And maybe you want your immune system to be awful so that you can be even more brilliant. But, Christ, Sherlock…don't."

Sherlock made a gentle "mmph" and rolled over. John held his breath, only letting it out once he realized his flatmate hadn't woken up. John wasn't sure if he wanted to avoid more whinging or if he didn't want Sherlock to hear his prattle. Maybe a little of both.

Prattle was good, prattle didn't allow John to think about the sheer panic he had felt while Sherlock was missing. The panic didn't even go away when Sherlock stumbled back to the flat; how could he be calm when the man couldn't stand up straight? Even now John should have been sleeping but he couldn't seem to move from Sherlock's side.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered to himself, then leaned over the bed and kissed Sherlock's temple. God only knows what had got into him.

_—_

"No, _trust me,_ you don't want to go up there right now. It's not pretty."

John cringed at Lestrade's warning, mostly because he could tell without looking that there was a smile forming across Sherlock's face in response to the words. Sherlock always lit up at the idea of something weirder or gorier than average_._ He wholeheartedly ignored Lestrade's protests, racing up the stairs to the victim's flat.

John flashed Lestrade an apologetic glance before dashing after him.

"I mean it!" Lestrade shouted uselessly after them.

"I don't understand," John said as he entered the bedroom. There was a dead woman splayed over the duvet; someone from Lestrade's team was rummaging around inside the walk-in wardrobe. Considering it was a crime scene, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. "It's just a dead body."

"John," Sherlock said disapprovingly. "_Observe._"

"What?"

"She's wearing her sister's wedding ring, for one."

"Oh look, it's the psychopath and his pet." Anderson exited the closet, his voice as nasal and obnoxious as always. "But then we never get one without the other."

The moment Anderson opened his mouth Sherlock's back stiffened and his face creased with a frown. John could tell Sherlock's gestures had become more deliberate, but he didn't stop his examination.

When he finally spoke, his voice came out low and fast. "Yes, Anderson, I'm sure it must be difficult for you to witness my close personal and professional relationship with John at the moment. Does your wife plan to take the kids with her when she finalizes the divorce?"

Anderson went still, glared at the closed door. "I told Lestrade not to say anything…"

Sherlock didn't glance up from the body. "He didn't have to."

John watched Anderson fluster as he tried to respond, to merely pull himself together. It felt like watching the timer on an active bomb. Sherlock wasn't in any danger, of course, either one of them could take Anderson apart in seconds. John would feel sorry for the man, but Sherlock had been making deductions about Anderson and Donovan's on-and-off affair for the past five months. Secretly, John was glad Anderson's wife had finally cottoned on.

"At least I'm not _queer._"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, obviously underwhelmed by Anderson's retort. It was petty and it was desperate, John knew that, but he couldn't help the way his breath hitched aloud. He felt his hands clenching and he turned to leave before it got worse.

He'd been to Afghanistan and back, he'd seen battle and serial killers and everything else under the sun, but no matter how dangerous his life became he would never forget the time Harry came up to his room in tears. She was fifteen and someone had written the word across her locker, blocked out the words in an angry black scrawl that everyone could see. John had only been twelve, too young to do anything, too young to fully understand the situation. He and Harry never really got on, but that night he sat with her while she cried for hours. He didn't ask questions; he knew she wouldn't want to answer. He could still remember the way her eyes shone with tears, and the way she ducked her head so he wouldn't have to see her cry. He had wanted to do something to make it better. He had wanted to punch whoever it was who made Harry feel that way.

But just as he reached the doorway, before he could leave the room and calm down, Sherlock was there. John gripped his arm, half in warning and half to push him out of way. But Sherlock didn't move, he just stared at John. He was trying to tell John something; he always was when they did this, this staring thing. Sometimes the message even got through.

John could feel his grip on Sherlock loosen, but he didn't let go. Suddenly it was less about getting away and more about trusting his gut feeling that somehow, impossibly, Sherlock understood.

"Please," Anderson sneered, practically gleeful at John's obvious agitation. "This is a crime scene, not your bedroom."

John was debating the consequences of punching Anderson, weighing them against the many (many) benefits, when Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John consciously unclenched his hands; he didn't stop what came next. He let go of Sherlock's arm and they met each other halfway. This was it. Somehow, somehow they were actually snogging at a crime scene. John manoeuvred Sherlock around a bit so he could get a good, quick look at Anderson. The man was simultaneously paling and sputtering and trying to look away, and it was _wonderful_. If Anderson told Lestrade about this, and Lestrade told Mycroft and Mycroft told the world, it still might still have been worth it; Anderson's face was that good. John catalogued the moment so he could laugh with Sherlock about it later.

John closed his eyes, satisfied. He was ready to break the kiss and pull away, point made, please and thank you. But then Sherlock's hand came up to cup his cheek, to keep him there, and John found himself leaning into the hand and the kiss. This was different from what had come before, this was Sherlock after he'd had time to observe and process, and the detective was determined. John found himself biting back a gasp. When they finally broke apart John was left with the taste of Sherlock's lips on his own. Anderson had disappeared, which was probably, no, _definitely,_ for the best.

Sherlock shot John a nervous glance. John tried not to look too shocked as he turned back to the body.

He cleared his throat. "Her sister's wedding ring, huh?"

Sherlock leaned over the dead woman, showing John how he made his deductions. "Yes, and she must have put it on sometime after…"

Sherlock kept talking, but John wasn't paying the least bit of attention. For a moment he tried to process exactly what had just happened, but he gave that up fairly quickly. This was Sherlock—John was used to adapting to confusion. He found himself comforted by the familiar rhythm of Sherlock's voice, and he started to learn the facts about their case.

_—_

It took John a while to understand, as many things do. But it had happened a fifth time the night before, when they visited the gay club where a missing boyfriend had last been seen. The investigation had even gone well, up until the moment when Sherlock's eyes zeroed in on something across the room. He leaned close to John.

"I need you to kiss me," he whispered.

John had blinked, uncertain that he had heard correctly.

"Okay," he said, mostly because he felt obliged to say something.

Sherlock's eyes might have flashed with wonder, but then it was dark in the club, and whatever emotion had been there was gone in seconds anyway.

"I need to blend in," Sherlock explained.

John nodded, oddly nervous. He told himself it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. He did all sorts of daft things to help Sherlock solve cases, had done ever since he left his cane in a restaurant to chase a taxi across London. This time really wasn't different from any other.

And, in retrospect, it wasn't as if he hadn't enjoyed it. Sherlock wasn't bad at kissing. He had run his hand along John's neck, down the side, and it was fine, it was absolutely, totally _fine._

But when they had broken apart Sherlock had murmured "interesting" in this highly suspicious way and ever since then John couldn't stop thinking about it. The next morning he found some kind of intestines, possibly rabbit, soaking in his coffee mug and it all clicked.

"I'm an experiment, aren't I?" he asked the moment Sherlock entered the room. The detective wore his purple shirt, the one that didn't button all the way up. He went into the kitchen, probably to check on the intestines, and then sat down on the chair across from John. He watched John silently. John tried not to think about what kind of deductions he might be making.

"I'm the eyeballs in the microwave now, is that it? That's what this has all been about. 'The effect kissing has on John.' 'How quickly can John turn gay.'"

Sherlock made a dismissive noise, and shook his head. "Wrong. I've been reliably informed that no one _turns_ gay. They might have a latent sexuality that only awakens when exposed to—"

"It's an expression, Sherlock! I know that. Christ."

Sherlock placed both arms on the armrest of the chair. He didn't say "interesting" again, not aloud, but John could practically hear it anyway.

"Right. Point is, you can't experiment on people."

"Why not? I do it all the time; no one ever notices. How else am I expected to understand what anyone wants when they won't admit it aloud?"

That was what all of this had been about, then, about getting John to admit something he hadn't even known himself. Sherlock had kissed him, and forced the knowledge out of him, because Sherlock had no qualms manipulating John's emotions for the sake of widening his knowledge base. John's sexuality had been handy for shamming, for a source of amusement, and now it was new data for Sherlock's mental hard drive. John stood and decided he should leave the flat. He didn't really want to look at Sherlock right now. Still, he couldn't resist correcting the detective as he walked over to grab his coat.

"You've never cared about what other people want. This is about you going to ridiculous lengths to get something _you_ want."

Sherlock huffed out a breath. _"Obviously."_ John rolled his eyes and walked to the door.

"John, wait. Stop."

John paused, though he didn't know why. He didn't owe Sherlock anything. Even if he did, Sherlock couldn't possibly need him anymore now that the experiment was through; John assumed the results were ruined if the test subject became aware of _being_ a test subject.

"Repeat that. Repeat what you just said to me, those exact words."

He wasn't looking John in the eyes, which meant he was…what? Cross? Embarrassed? It meant that this was some kind of admission, which meant…John tried to remember exactly what he had said.

"'This is about going to ridiculous lengths to—Sherlock. Are you saying you wanted to understand my sexuality because you wanted…But you said you're married to your work."

Sherlock shook his head, as if he could clear away any peripheral stupidity. "John, you can be terribly dull—"

John usually got things right in the end, and once he knew he understood, properly now, he felt his breath escape him all at once. He crossed the room before Sherlock could finish his sentence. Or maybe he did finish his sentence, but certainly not the next one—the words kept falling from Sherlock's lips but they didn't matter anymore, not when John could make everything so much easier and stop them with a kiss. Sherlock made a keening, desperate sound, one John had never heard before but was suddenly determined to hear again. Sherlock placed both hands around the back of John's neck, the long fingers moving up into his hair. John took a shuddering breath. Sherlock grinned, smug, and John kissed him again, feeling a bit satisfied himself when he made Sherlock gasp by biting his lower lip.

Eventually John pulled away to catch his breath. Sherlock tipped his head against the back of the chair staring upward at the ceiling. John could get used to that glazed look in the detective's eyes. Soon enough, though, they were focused and primed on John, critical as always.

"It does take you a while to catch on," he said.

"Stop talking now," John said. "Please."

For once, Sherlock grinned and did exactly as he was asked.

* * *

><p>Please comment + let me know what you think! I've got a few ideas for other Sherlock stories but I'm not sure if I'll write them up just yet. : P<p>

(Plus I haven't posted fic in ages or Sherlock fic ever, so I'm a little nervous about posting this!)


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